


Born ’Neath the Kill of the Afterglow

by sewerpigeon



Series: But the Burn Wanted More [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Battle, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Demons, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Doubt, Emotional Baggage, Emotions, Fade Rifts, Feelings, Implied Sexual Content, Insecurity, Internal Conflict, Kissing, M/M, Morning After, Named Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Named Lavellan (Dragon Age), POV Dorian Pavus, POV Inquisitor (Dragon Age), POV Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26267827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerpigeon/pseuds/sewerpigeon
Summary: [continued from part 3]...There was a new vulnerability between them; it felt as though they had taken ten steps back.  In the time of Eris’s illness, Dorian had had too much time to think and think again and think about thinking, and it led to him feeling disconcertingly anxious by the time Eris woke up.  Until now it hadn’t even occurred to him that of course to Eris, time had merely been put on pause.  He clearly noticed the skittish shift in Dorian’s nature around him, worried that something drastic had changed, and Dorian felt a hot rush of shame.  Nothing had changed; he’d just been given too much time to convince himself it would… That maybe it should.
Relationships: Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: But the Burn Wanted More [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800511
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this work is part of a chronological series! it’s not necessary, but you can start at the beginning [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882511/chapters/60202660)!  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took a little longer w this update bc i separated the previous part into two separate parts, and since this was only 2 chapters i thought i might as well post them together but of course there’s always like that last 5% of a draft that takes the most time of any of it and yadda yadda anyway you know how it goes

They were outnumbered—well, they usually _were_ outnumbered, but thus far never outmatched. Now, Eris wasn’t so sure this wouldn’t be the fight they lost.

The Rift had practically come out of nowhere. It wasn’t on the map; somehow it had been missed, unreported. Eris might have considered why—perhaps the scouts somehow erred and didn’t canvas this corner of the wood, or maybe it had only recently been torn open—but there wasn’t much time to ponder while demons hailed upon his party with abandon.

Caught unawares, they had already been at a disadvantage: wounded from earlier encounters, haggard from a full day of traveling. Night had long fallen; the only illumination was the sickly ethereal green of the Rift, Eris’s palm, and the periodic flashes of magic exchanged between Dorian’s staff and the attacking demons. Eris had initially given the order to disengage and flee, but just because his companions had agreed hadn’t meant the demons would be so understanding.

Coming up behind Eris, Bull bellowed, “Heads up, Boss!” Eris dipped low as a singing greataxe tore over his head into an approaching Shade.

Ducking and pivoting, Eris saw Cassandra caught within a small cluster of demons, blocking so many blows that she couldn’t get a chance to land one of her own. Before he was even fully upright, Eris lit and released a tar-wrapped arrow that whizzed square between the eyes of a Despair demon, at the same moment calling to the Seeker, “Down!”

Already on it, Cassandra adeptly jumped and rolled with her shield out from under the demons’ encroaching grasp just as the arrow exploded. The shrapnel tore into the target’s companions and they wailed as a ghastly choir. Cassandra scrambled to her feet, breaking free from the cluster with only a scratch from the spray of hot metal.

The Inquisitor was doing all he could as a single man to both corral his party away from the Rift and urge the demons the other way. He was down to four arrows. Eris, Cassandra, Bull, and Dorian had gathered close enough for the mage to whip up a roaring wall of fire before they had the chance to again be surrounded. They had a single moment to catch their breath and brainstorm.

Dorian was looking ragged. His lyrium potions had been spent; he was being forced to scrape at the bottom of his well of mana. The exhaustion showed in the sweat that rolled from his temples, his heaving breaths and trembling fingers. Bull was bleeding heavily from a nasty slash that reached from his shoulder to his abdomen. The fire of battle was still in his eyes as he wrung the grip of his axe in anticipation, but up close now Eris could see his breathing was labored and he was favoring his left leg. Cassandra was covered in dirt and ash and goo from slaughtered demons, panting angrily; her features were twisted from more than just pain. Rivulets of blood trickled freely down the skin of her face; Eris feared a head wound. 

“All of you, go!” he ordered a second later, raising his voice over the roaring of both flames and demons alike and the screeching song of the Rift. The Anchor was straining, its burn reaching deep and Eris could taste bitterness. He nocked one of his precious remaining arrows. “I’ll take up the rear and close the Rift behind us.”

“Oh, all on your own will you?” Dorian japed, panting.

Bull snorted. “Run? I could keep killing these things all day.”

Eris shook his head, not in the mood to argue. They had to get out of there. “I can stealth my way closer and disrupt the Rift—maybe it won’t close, but it could stun the demons long enough for us to get away.”

“If we run, we do it now before the fire wall fades,” Cassandra interjected pragmatically.

“It’s not a discussion,” Eris barked, exercising rare authority. “Go.”

Cassandra gave no protest. Bull scowled but nodded, grabbing Dorian’s sleeve as the mage lingered to glare at Eris a moment too long. With a final jerk of Eris’s head, the three were off. The Inquisitor plunged into the shadows and skirted the fire wall.

But the plan didn’t matter.

Just as their backs had turned, a Rage demon barrelled through the fire wall and launched a blazing attack of its own. “No!” Eris shouted, immediately breaking cover to whirl around and fire his arrow. The demon roared—Bull had just enough reflex to knock Cassandra and Dorian forward under the arc of the fireball, barely jumping back in time himself to come away with nothing worse than a singed forearm.

Cassandra found her second wind and charged forward. In a show of their improving combat synchronization, Dorian had already launched a blast across the short distance to encase the demon in solid ice so that it shattered upon Cassandra’s impact.

Bull ran a charge of his own. Whipping his axe with jarring agility in a circling thicket of Shades and Wraiths, he dispatched them easily. It was an inspiring rally from his team, but Eris knew their only chance was still to get out of there. They were on their last legs. He used the cleared path carnage from Bull’s kills as the first step in his path to get closer to the Rift.

Eris’s vision focused to a pinpoint, his energy borrowed from desperate adrenaline alone. Still running, Eris tore the last flask of Antivan Fire at his hip and rocketed it into a pair of Terror demons and a Despair demon, their shrieks beneath the _whoosh_ of flame distantly satisfying. An arrow tore right through an aggressive Wraith—two arrows left.

The Anchor grew incrementally hotter, Eris’s eyes watering against the burn and the strain of his exhausted body. A Despair’s ice blast just barely missed Eris’s face. He reeled back and ducked out of instinct, expecting a follow-up blast, nocking another arrow in the meantime to pick off a weakened Shade directly in his path. One arrow remaining.

The Rift screamed, and so did Eris as he finally came within range. He nearly dislocated his shoulder as he flung the seething Anchor upward. Heaving breaths raking through his lungs and throat, his entire body threatening to pitch him forward. Everything hurt, it _hurt—_ just a few more seconds—

Suddenly he was weightless.

A Greater Terror materialized from a warp spot directly beneath Eris’s feet. The impact sent him sailing several feet in the air with a shout, the demon’s claws and tail lashing viciously to slam him into the ground. Hard.

 _“Inquisitor!”_ Eris heard Cassandra cry, but he was caught somewhere between gasping and retching and going blind as all the air in his lungs evacuated. His movements were as restricted and helpless as those of a fish on the floor of a boat. The Terror loomed over him with its hideous insect-like features, a spindly, jagged arm raised. Eris heard more than saw the nearest demons witnessing the prone target and closing in. He had nothing left but reflex, an automatic instinct—however piddly a gesture it might have been—to merely fling his left arm over his face as a shield.

He could not describe the sound that came next, but if he would have ever taken a guess, he might have called it still thunder.

A geyser of light blasted from Eris’s palm, the Anchor wailing in time with Eris as its searing pain filled his vision with greenish-white; this agony was greater than when he closed any normal Rift. Still breathless, Eris saw he was not aiming at the Rift at all—rather, a new one was forming just over his head.

It was impossible to think, to reason, or analyze. He felt blood trickle from his nose; Eris was nothing but a witness to his own body as it surged. He managed to gasp some brittle air into his screaming lungs, propping his weight up on his right elbow. Time seemed to slow—not in the literal Rift way—and Eris felt as though fire and ice and vinegar and bees were being drilled from his palm through the entire appendage via a thousand forge-hot needles.

In an extended radius from where Eris now pathetically tried to scramble to his feet, the surrounding demons were becoming tethered to the small rift forming overhead, evanescing into the sickly green one particle at a time until they were consumed in a final burst of light. Eris staggered backward, and the remaining demons were sent flying. He’d squinted against the radiance, but as it dissipated, he cracked open an eye to see he was standing at the epicenter of a crop circle in what was once a field of demons.

At some point his other companions had managed to navigate the scrum to get closer to Eris’s side—despite his orders for them to leave. In the beat of recovering silence, through the rapid pounding in his ears Eris heard Bull whistle, “Holy shit.”

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra ventured, but Eris could hardly hear anything but the raging clamor in his head. _The Rift. The Rift. The Rift._ His body made every protest it could manage as he hauled himself forward, feeling as though he might be bleeding from every pore—or maybe that was just sweat—his left arm in near-useless, white-hot agony.

His companions’ attentions had returned to the remaining demons, of which there were now far fewer. Unsteady and delirious, Eris took the remaining steps that brought him into range of the Rift once again, and for the third and final time he raised the Anchor high.

The tether of light was no more intense than normal, but Eris had been torn raw by whatever had allowed him to construct a secondary Rift to consume the demons. He fell to his knees, arm rattling in its socket as he felt more than heard himself howl against the scraping, keening stripes of pain pulsing through his arm. His vision blurred, his ears rang. The taste and smell of blood replaced all other senses. He saw the customary explosion, and the Rift was gone, splatters of Fade slime smattering the grove.

Everything fell deafeningly quiet.

Eris’s breath was rapid and raw, each one feeling as if it couldn’t quite reach his lungs. He collapsed forward into a fetal position, clutching his arm, every muscle trembling uncontrollably. Externally he burned, internally he was frigid. He wasn’t quite numb, but the degree of fatigue was so intense that he had no agency, no strength. Eris’s head lolled on the ground as he vacantly sought his companions, but his vision seemed as though it had been smeared with ash until his eyes failed to stay open altogether. He thought there were voices humming somewhere around him, maybe within him, but there was no hope in discerning what they said. A sudden calm settled into Eris’s very bones, and the last thing he remembered before welcoming the black was the sensation of being lifted heavily from the ground.

* * *

“Incredible,” Solas said, a rare hint of surprise coating his normally-collected cadence. “Somehow the power of the Anchor has grown to allow the Inquisitor to inflict his own small tears in the Veil. I should very much like to study this further when he awakens.” The elf returned his attention to the unconscious Inquisitor who had been hastily hauled to his quarters; his companions had snuck him back into Skyhold as a blanketed bundle in the Iron Bull’s arms so as to avoid unnecessary panic from the Inquisition.

“Homemade Rifts,” Bull grunted, his own injuries now treated after some unamused insistence on his lieutenant Krem’s part. “Just what we needed… Although I have to admit: it was pretty badass in the moment.” 

Cassandra hovered worriedly beside Solas who was examining the Anchor from the Inquisitor’s bedside. Her only visible injuries were minor cuts and rashes, but the bruises beneath her armor were no doubt an unwelcome hug around her ribs. Madame de Fer stood opposite, having wiped clean the blood and grime from Eris’s face, checking his fever and working her magic to search for any internal concerns—as far as the Grand Enchanter could tell, he had no broken bones or bleeding. His sudden illness seemed exclusively due to the bizarre outburst from the Anchor and the accompanying exhaustion.

“Poor dear,” Vivienne hummed, revealing an actual hint of human empathy—something Dorian would have joked was scarier in its own right were he not so fixated on Eris’s stillness.

Dorian stood far off to the side, leaning against Eris’s desk. His jaw had been clenched for so long it hurt, incessantly tapping his foot as he watched from afar. Eris looked in poor shape; he’d hung frighteningly limp in Bull’s arms as his companions had raced to bring Eris to camp and secure steady means of rapid transport back to the castle. Now he lie unresponsive but restless, trapped in some unwaking dream with the breath sharp in his chest. Dark bruises formed under the Inquisitor’s eyes which rolled frantically beneath their lids. His skin was hot, rogue locks of hair stuck to his damp forehead, but he was pale, muscles occasionally tensing as if with cold.

What made Dorian the most sick to his stomach was Eris’s left arm. Whatever had happened had resulted in the Anchor tearing wider across his palm, its light pulsating all throughout the Inquisitor’s stupor. Spiderwebs of green had been emblazoned over the rest of his hand and just past his wrist, the pattern reminiscent of splintered glass. Of course no one knew anything about how this Anchor was supposed to behave, but Dorian had a sinking feeling to see it spread was a bad thing, however convenient the inciting event had been.

Solas recorded some anecdote or another in the journal he’d placed upon the night stand by the Inquisitor’s headboard. “Unfortunately, I cannot determine the cause of this with any greater certainty than the rest of you,” he said clinically, standing, “but I will proceed to seek answers from the Fade itself. I will travel at once to the site of this incident; perhaps the spirits who were nearby will be able to offer some insight.”

“You will go alone?” Cassandra asked, concerned—either for his safety or for the chance of duplicity, Dorian couldn’t tell.

Apparently reading these same cues from the Seeker’s demeanor, Solas offered, “I would not ask that the Inquisition spare more resources than would be necessary for a simple journey. However, l have asked Blackwall to accompany me. In the meantime, the Inquisitor’s condition should be monitored closely. Madame de Fer, I presume between your skills and those of the apothecary, you should at least be able to keep the Inquisitor stable if nothing else.”

Vivienne, as always, seemed perfectly poised for a retort as if to insist she was more than just “able,” but she decided against it in favor of a dutiful incline of her head.

Cassandra nodded. “We will keep watch in shifts. Someone will be posted in the Inquisitor’s quarters at all times to keep track of any changes, good or bad—but only those within the Inner Circle. We cannot risk the Inquisition becoming doubtful or scared.”

“I’m not so sure keeping a potentially detrimental circumstance to the Inquisition secret is the wisest course of action,” Vivienne mused coolly. “I insist we recruit Mother Giselle at least. Her medicinal skills are forever invaluable, and she will know best how to appease the refugees’ fears if she sees the Inquisitor’s state for herself.”

Cassandra nodded her assent. “We merely inform them the Inquisitor is indisposed,” the Seeker continued, having clearly already been thinking about this. “Since we do not know how long his recovery will take, if we conceal the truth only for things to turn for the worse—Maker forbid—it would only cause more detriment for the news to blindside the Inquisition completely.”

“I believe he will recover,” Solas said as if by way of consolation, then added more gravely, “What we cannot determine is how different he may or may not be when he returns to us.”

“‘Returns to us’?” Something in Solas’s words snagged Dorian’s interest. He’d been rather quiet this whole time, lost in his own series of thoughts, but at last he piped up. “Wait—are you thinking the Inquisitor is currently _in_ the Fade?”

Solas gave a tilted nod, acknowledging Dorian’s astute inference. “I believe it is entirely possible. Obviously this is not a normal circumstance; the Inquisitor’s connection to the Fade is not quite as straightforward as that of a mage. I am not confident I would be able to accurately estimate his whereabouts in this state. However, if I begin my search from the site of this last Rift, it could potentially help me find him faster—if he is indeed there at all.”

Bull was scratching at his forehead, never excited to be in the midst of conversation regarding the Veil or the Fade or the Breach or the Anchor and the gravity of all their implications. “I’m really getting sick of all this Fade bullshit. I miss the good old days when all I had to do to solve a problem was kill it.”

“Quite,” Vivienne conferred dryly.

Solas, not needing to emphasize the situation’s pertinence, bid the rest of them farewell before leaving to begin preparations for his excursion at once.

“I’ll take the first shift,” Dorian volunteered as neutrally as he could once the mysterious elf had left. “I can do my research from anywhere; I simply have to retrieve my materials.”

However well Dorian thought he’d maintained neutrality, both Bull and Vivienne arched a knowing eyebrow at him. Cassandra, however, was mercifully oblivious enough that the others abstained from commenting. “Thank you, Dorian,” the Seeker said. “In the meantime I will coordinate with Leliana’s agents to keep watch of all access to the Inquisitor’s quarters at all times. We must take extra precautions. If the House of Repose managed to pass through our defenses to reach Josephine in her own office, I do not want to risk any potential attacks on the Inquisitor while he is vulnerable. It is impossible to be certain that this information will not become rumored somehow.”

“Good thinking,” said Bull, “I’ll talk to some of my guys too. It’s always the most inconvenient secrets that spies can be so good at finding out.”

“I shall inform Hestrid as well,” Madame de Fer announced, wasting no further time as she glided across the room to depart with the Iron Bull in tow. “They will surely want to lend their own aid, at the very least by keeping the paperwork from backing up.”

Cassandra remained in the Inquisitor’s quarters for as long as it had taken Dorian to return with what he needed. In addition to his own books and parchments, Vivienne instructed he keep cool water and a rag available to help tend any fluxes in Eris’s fever for the first night. In the meanwhile, she would be meeting with the apothecary to acquire further supplies and medicines for when she would return to relieve Dorian. Once Dorian had his materials in hand, he returned to Eris’s quarters and nodded to the Seeker, reluctance and worry reshaping her usual grimace as she moved to depart.

“He’s survived more incredible things,” Dorian tried to convince both Cassandra and himself. He flashed what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

“Yes,” the Seeker said, wanting to take comfort in the notion but adding grimly, “But I fear with every miracle, his chance of the next one falls.” Cassandra continued, eyes downcast, “If only we had known about that Rift ahead of time—”

Dorian rushed to interrupt, sympathetic: “It was a mistake like any other. And obviously the events led to some further awakening of what the Inquisitor can do. If it hadn’t been there, surely it would have happened somewhere else. If you really believe he is meant to play this role, and I know you do, then believe this is merely another part of that path.” He barely recognized the compassion in his own voice, bolstered by the relief of redirecting his own anxiety into soothing that of someone else.

The Seeker sighed and nodded again, resting a companionable hand on Dorian’s shoulder before exiting the room at last. Now he was alone with the Inquisitor in his quarters, but not in any of the ways he’d ever spent time dreaming about. That was in fact the furthest thing from Dorian’s mind as he paced toward the solid dark wood desk across the room and set his pile of books down atop the hazardous skewing of pages of the Inquisitor’s own. 

In passing, he saw one of the sheets appeared to be dedicated to practicing his handwriting, but then Dorian considered it might have originally intended to be a letter, as the top was addressed to a _ByroN y_ , followed by several scribbled out beginnings of sentences. The name itself had a gentle line struck through it and in neater, highly legible handwriting it was corrected to one Dorian recognized: _Bryony_. Underneath that were several regressing attempts to mimic the correction as neatly as possible until a quill tip evidently tore through the parchment while scribbling out the last one.

It was a name Eris had mentioned once or twice, fondly but sadly. He’d elaborated no further other than she was a clanmate, and Dorian had been afraid to ask. It was due in part to knowing for Eris to think back on his clan made him sad, but Dorian wasn’t proud to admit it also came from the selfish fear that perhaps she was an old lover the Inquisitor missed, and thus further suggesting perhaps Dorian was nothing more than a coping mechanism, a distraction from both Eris’s past and present, a port in the storm.

Not that Dorian was _jealous;_ that would be undignified, not to mention baseless. It wasn’t as if he’d assumed he were anything different, anything special. But the letter sent a second pang through his heart, for at the core of it, this elf who meant something to the Inquisitor was still waiting for a reply that might very well never come.

No. That mentality simply wouldn’t do.

Dorian turned to face the Inquisitor once more, moving closer to his bedside as if approaching a sleeping bear. He dreaded seeing such vulnerability so close. Short as he was, Eris’s presence had never felt small. But to watch his flaccid form rise and fall with slow, labored breaths, the cold sweat dampening his wan complexion and turning his honey-blonde hair sallow and limp… It filled Dorian with a tightness he didn’t yet understand, one he could not yet justify—one he wished he were allowed to justify—and one he was afraid of all the same.

Wringing the rag from the basin placed next to the Inquisitor’s bed, Dorian sat on the edge of the mattress and carefully blotted at the _vallaslin_ across Eris’s forehead in a motion that felt disproportionately intimate. “You don’t get to do this,” he muttered aloud, the scathing words rendered dull in his tense worry. He was overly focused, treating the task as if it were of the utmost fragility. Eris was unresponsive, but that wasn’t the point. “You don’t just get to show up, change everything, and then _leave.”_

Dorian swallowed hard and set his jaw as he stood to return the rag to the basin and move slowly back toward the desk. Looking at the materials, Dorian sighed—who had he been kidding? He wasn’t going to get any work done feeling like this. But, he relented, it was a good enough distraction to try.

* * *

Over the next three days, the Inquisitor was in and out of consciousness. Sometimes his eyelids would flutter as Dorian brought his fingers, chilled with mana, across Eris’s coal-hot skin, the latter surely indifferent to the gesture but the former taking greater comfort from it than with the rag. Other times Eris’s breath would surge, as if he were waking from a nightmare, but wake he did not. In such a stupor, the extent of his panic manifested as little more than the eking of small, distressed moans that dug a pit in Dorian’s stomach as he could only watch. Then there were several times Eris’s alert but droopy gaze fell directly on Dorian—and some of the others who’d taken their turns tending to him—but whomever or whatever it was the Inquisitor saw was far, far away from here. It was chilling.

More than once Dorian considered the notion of slipping into the Fade himself to see if there was a way to reach the elf, but he refrained from attempting. Solas had stated that Eris’s connection to the Fade should not be treated equal to a mage’s. The Anchor’s nature and its influence on both Eris’s mind and body made his relationship with the Fade an uncanny one, more tangible than any mage’s, and thus no part of it should be taken for granted. It was too dangerous to risk mishandling it. If the Inquisitor, a nonmage, had been capable of being in the Fade physically—and _surviving_ —navigating the connection would be a minefield at best. As much as Dorian adored mystery and experiments and challenges and new information, there were too many variables. He would not bet Eris’s wellbeing on an uncalculated whim, a _test_ —especially not unsupervised, and especially not without Eris’s informed consent; it would be awfully rude to manifest in someone’s subconscious unbidden.

It had felt like the entire keep was holding its breath, just knowing _something_ was wrong even if no one would announce the full truth. Each day felt like an age. But Eris began to pull through with the gradual finesse of any normal illness. Perhaps that was all it had been: stress-related from the strain of the Anchor and the overexertion of energy in battle. They weren’t to be sure yet; Solas had not yet returned from his own wanderings with Blackwall in his tow. But for the time being, it didn’t matter. The Inquisitor’s eyes had opened, color was returning to his cheeks, and he’d even managed a few smiles.

It had taken three days for Eris to fully regain coherent consciousness, one more day before he could stomach solid food, and after a full week since their return to Skyhold, he was finally able to keep himself on his feet, walking around the keep with discreet support at his side so the members of the Inquisition could take comfort in seeing his well presence for themselves. He’d told everyone he didn’t remember anything from his incapacitation other than a pervasive malaise and the occasional feeling of cold over his face. If he’d been dreaming, he said, he did not remember what. If Solas had been responsible for his waking, Eris had no recollection of as much. Although, Dorian couldn’t be certain the Inquisitor’s initial inattentive nervousness wasn’t entirely due to just lingering fatigue. Either way, the advisors proceeded to shoulder what responsibilities they could until Eris was fully back to himself.

In the meantime, Dorian had been thinking—perhaps too much.

The Inquisitor’s chamber door opened after three sharp knocks. From behind it emerged an upright but bleary-eyed elf who became marginally more alert upon seeing Dorian’s face.

“Just came by to retrieve my personal effects,” Dorian announced rather formally but with a bright smile as he invited himself into the room and up the stairs.

“Good morning,” Eris greeted sarcastically as he shut the door and followed the mage.

Eris clearly hadn’t touched his desk in the few days since Dorian had last been here. Dorian was already rustling together his own worksheets and notes, careful not to grab any of Eris’s underneath.

Eris watched him for a beat before he took slow steps forward. “I heard you hung around while I slept.”

Dorian hardly spared him a glance as he proceeded to separate his materials from Eris’s and gather his books into a stack. “We all worked in shifts—to keep an eye on you.” 

“Hestrid said you stayed past your shifts,” Eris egged, demurely looking to the pile of books. “They said you were quite dedicated.”

“I thought I would strive to get some work done in the meantime,” said Dorian hurriedly. “Since you were incapacitated, I thought I’d take advantage of your wonderful and available scribe in the quietest room in Skyhold. Surely you didn’t expect the rest of your Inquisition to put everything on pause just because _you_ thought it was the perfect time to enter a vegetative state.”

Tilting his head, Eris searched Dorian’s averted expression as if he were looking for a hidden image. “Surely not,” Eris assuaged, thoughtful but in good humor. Then he shifted his weight and his tone, adding in awkward sincerity, “I, um—Thank you. I… don’t really recall anything with much clarity, but I feel as though having someone there must have made a difference.”

Dorian’s movements slowed and he dragged his teeth across his bottom lip as he turned to finally look at Eris, feeling unwelcome shame. “I take it you are, um… How are you feeling?”

Eris smiled faintly, casually stepping closer. “Significantly less vegetative,” he assured.

“Excellent.” Dorian mirrored the close-lipped smile in kind. “It’s not as though Corypheus needs any more of a leg up than he’s already got.” 

Dorian returned his attention to the books on the desk. A beat passed, during which Eris leaned a hip against the edge of it, folding his arms across his chest. “Did… something happen?” he ventured quietly. “While I was… ?” He canted his head to indicate the unmade bed.

Dorian hesitated conspicuously. There was a new vulnerability between them; it felt as though they had taken ten steps back. In the time of Eris’s illness, Dorian had had too much time to think and think again and think about thinking, and it led to him feeling disconcertingly anxious by the time Eris woke up. Until now it hadn’t even occurred to him that of course to Eris, time had merely been put on pause. He clearly noticed the skittish shift in Dorian’s nature around him, worried that something drastic had changed, and Dorian felt a hot rush of shame. Nothing _had_ changed; he’d just been given too much time to convince himself it _would…_ That maybe it should.

Eris wasn’t stupid, and Dorian wasn’t going to treat him like it by denying his own aloofness. But rather than confess, he sidestepped to maintain the illusion of casualness. “Nothing major, but if you haven’t been updated yet, there’s a list of myriad happenings to revise. As I said, neither the Inquisition nor the Red Templars nor the people of Thedas took time off.”

Suspecting the evasive maneuver, Eris tilted his head the other way by a fraction, considering before lending a shy smile. “My advisors briefed me, er, briefly—but perhaps you could add some color to the picture. I could have dinner sent to my room,” he offered in all innocence. “We could each try to catch up on work at the same time. Maybe you could help me with some of these reports.”

“And put Hestrid out of a job?” Dorian continued to dodge, ignoring the enticing thought of sharing dinner with Eris alone in his room. He splayed a hand over his chest in mock shock and offense. “Do you take me for some sort of southern _pilferer?”_

Eris rolled his eyes with a smile. “Over chess, then,” he said.

“Do you even remember how to play?” Dorian teased.

“I can always just have you teach me again.”

“I could refuse.”

“What, afraid you’ll lose?”

Dorian huffed a laugh. _Something like that._

While Eris had lain ill, Dorian _had_ been afraid. Perhaps he’d been no more worried than the others in their circle—after all, it wasn’t as if he had any right to be. So they’d kissed a few times; this did not make Dorian some kind of exception. This did not mean he had any greater claim to concern than anyone else. And yet, upon further reflection, Dorian was afraid of _how_ afraid he’d been. It was a bad sign, a warning, an alarm sounding: _get out._

At first it had been only a game. Then it was a distraction. Then it was fun, even warm. Then it grew precarious, and seeing Eris lying so still for so long had forced Dorian to confront the fact he either had to back off now with some minor remorse or fall from the precipice, the edge he’d been flirting with as he’d gotten carried away with this new sense of restrained liberation beyond Tevinter. But to plummet from that precipice would hurt far more the longer he teetered. So he had to get it together and walk away, gain distance, go back where it was safe.

Or so he had decided, for as long as Eris was unconscious. But now, meeting those honey-brown eyes again after what felt like months, playfully lit but peering past Dorian’s façade—discretion was not Dorian’s strongest feature—he suddenly became very aware of the weight of the amulet around his neck, against his chest, returned to him in earnest, in kindness, from Eris. As Dorian looked at him, a second weight manifested, this one _inside_ his chest, teetering upon his rib cage akin to his previous cliff-face analogy, dancing with the gravitational pull of the hollow in Dorian’s stomach. The pull of temptation—the shame of it. It made him feel weak. Childish.

His pause lasted only a few seconds, but that was all it took for him to flush with varying regrets. Healthy distance was good; he had to keep a hold of himself—but, he supposed, he didn’t have to be rude about it.

“The usual time, then?” he conceded, the forced smile requiring the same exertion as lifting a heavy stone over one’s head. But the pleased nod from Eris made that weight a little lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway remember after haven when the inquisitor could suddenly just tear open mini rifts and no one had anything to say about that


	2. Chapter 2

“So? What’s it gonna be, Lambchop? You in or out?”

Eris had been working on his tells, but Varric’s entire reason for being was to read people, because reading people is how one learns to write them. Eris did his own quick read of the room, likely to little avail as everyone had far more experience with this game than he. He thought he’d make his choice based on his record so far: fold; no room here for pride. But then… Maybe that was what they expected, to intimidate him into bowing out. Or maybe it was further reverse psychology that they expected him to expect them to expect him to fold. His head hurt; he was glad that these pinsharp minds were on his side when it really counted.

Eris took an emboldening swig of mead. “I’m out,” he chirped with a shrug as he leaned back in his chair.

“Well, that’s hardly encouraging: seeing the great Inquisitor himself fold so easily,” Dorian remarked with an amused look on his face.

Eris met his gaze across the table, gauging—Dorian had been acting… odd around Eris, to say the least, ever since he woke from his fever. They’d kept up their chess appointments, conversation easy enough, but Dorian seemed further away now, always in a hurry to attend “business elsewhere.” He had to know it was obvious, the way he was keeping his distance, pulling away. Eris admitted it ached a bit, if only for being given no reason why, but between Dorian’s and his own duties there hadn’t been a single chance to really pull him aside to talk. In the meantime, Eris was doomed to running lists in his mind of what the reason could be.

Eris cocked a brow and a smile, retorting, “A true leader needs to know when to back down.”

Something familiar flickered across Dorian’s features as he scanned Eris’s face, and for a split second it lifted his spirits before the moment was struck by Blackwall folding as well. The Iron Bull heartily upped the stakes and challenged Cullen with a toothy grin. With each round the Commander grew more daring, and it pleased Eris to finally see the poor man relax a bit.

In fact, it was wonderful to see them all relaxing for once, to see these people he’d grown to consider dear friends being allowed this reprieve to live now, to laugh, to have a chance to remember what it was like when all that was at stake was some pocket change between compatriots. They shared stories, jokes, little pieces of themselves that never saw the light of day when the threat of Corypheus loomed in every conversation, every decision, every single footstep. Varric was the hero this time; he seemed to be the one who always pulled them back down to earth, to remind them all they’re still just people underneath it all. There were no titles here. Eris was grateful; it wasn’t often enough he felt like he wasn’t being held so high above anyone else. 

The jibes grew rowdier, their cheeks grew flushed from drink and laughter—except for Cullen, whose cheeks were red only from his own overconfidence betraying him his clothing. Eris had finally called the game to an end in his sympathetic embarrassment for the Commander, having had lost all but his dignity, and even that had been torn to mere scraps.

_“Never_ bet against an Antivan, Commander,” Josephine bragged.

“I’m leaving,” Cassandra announced, her chair scraping the floor as she rose, her own embarrassment plain. “I don’t want to witness our Commander’s walk of shame back to the barracks.”

“Well, I do,” Dorian chimed with a harmless smirk.

But to Cullen’s mercy the group had all risen and turned their backs to leave the table as he made his dash to safety. Eris followed Varric toward the chattering hearth, the warmth of drink and fire and joy blooming from his head to his toes.

“I’m glad you joined us tonight, Lambchop,” Varric said, arms folded casually. “It’s too easy to mistake you for the Inquisitor.”

“I had fun,” said Eris truthfully.

Varric chuckled, then resumed a more earnest manner. “I just mean that it’s easy to forget you’re not just some icon or a symbol, like those statues of Andraste holding bowls of fire. It is for me, anyway,” he added with a relenting look to Eris.

A poignant pinch in Eris’s chest sobered him some. “Well, I’m glad _someone_ is here to remember to keep our feet on the ground. I can forget myself just as often. Especially after…” Eris lifted his palm, the bitter green scar calm for now but feeling much heavier ever since he’d opened that Rift. The unpredictable power of the Anchor haunted him more and more each day, filling him with ever growing fear of what nightmarish thing he’d be forced to do next.

Varric spared him a warm nod of understanding, smiling, pulling Eris back from his trance. “I hope that means you’ll join us for another round, once this is all over?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Eris promised, hoping he sounded as sincere as he was. “Thank you, Varric.”

They bid their good nights, a giddy exhaustion settling comfortably into Eris’s bones. He wanted to go to sleep with this feeling, to not give his mind a chance to reabsorb all the surrounding darkness before tomorrow. He made his way across what now seemed like an infinite stretch of stone leading to his quarters, tipsy but not so drunk as to be unsteady on his feet. He was fumbling with his keyring to unlock the door from the throne room when a set of footsteps drew his attention toward an approaching Dorian. For some reason it sent a slow, muted jolt of nervousness through him, like stray lightning through tar. 

“Master Pavus,” Eris greeted with a smile, dipping his head, the formality hinted with just a slip of pettiness. He unlocked the door and pushed it open without looking away from Dorian. “Feeling braver now that I’ve been so cruelly humbled?”

Dorian’s responding smile was good-natured but sheepish as he caught some of Eris’s undertone. Eris immediately wanted to redo it; he apologized before Dorian could speak. “I’m sorry, I know things have been—”

“No,” Dorian interrupted, having clearly approached Eris with a purpose. “No, you’re quite right. I realize that perhaps my behavior has been a bit… preoccupied, of late.” He seemed quite composed, but the single loosened lock of hair from his perfect coif and the faint glow in his cheeks indicated he was in about the same state as Eris.

Eris dropped his flippant façade and canted his head toward the open door. “We can talk about it.”

Dorian’s brow twitched, almost suspicious, apparently off-guard by the invitation. Eris shrugged meekly, wanting to make a peace offering. “I was gifted some ‘finer’ Orlesian wines from one of the more recently-allied nobles. I feel I’m hardly worthy, what with not having the refined palette of a true connoisseur like yourself; maybe you can tell me what’s so great about it.”

Dorian cocked his head. “What if it isn’t great at all? It could ruin your relationship with fine wines before it’s even begun.”

“Then you’ll simply have to take the first sip, to protect me.”

“Ah, promoted to your official taste-tester now, am I? The wine could be poisoned, and this could all be a ruse for you to be rid of me once and for all.”

“We’ve discussed this; I wouldn’t use poison.”

“You know, I’m fairly certain that those sound like the exact words of someone who _would_ use poison.”

“Well,” Eris procured sagely, “you’ve already spent the entire night placing bets. What’s one more gamble?”

They each smiled, breaking character in spite of themselves, and Dorian bowed with flourish before stepping through the open door.

* * *

Dorian had been pleasantly surprised by the wine, impressed with the gifter’s good taste. “I don’t suppose it came with yet another imploring marriage offer for the Inquisitor?”

“Not this one,” Eris said, examining the drink through his glass. “But there have been a few.” He had to laugh at the absurdity of it in retrospect. He continued, only half-joking, “I’m afraid the Orlesians are all expecting me to be something far more sophisticated than I am.”

“The Orlesians expect everything from everyone,” Dorian said plainly from his comfortable perch on the sofa, “good or bad. Whatever can be played as part of the Game.”

“The Game,” Eris scoffed. “That’s another thing. It’s hard enough to understand why, but I can’t imagine I’m ever going to understand how to play. Not to mention the peace talks—who schedules peace talks at a masquerade?— _and_ warnings of assassins, all while spinning around a ballroom in impossible-to-coordinate steps?”

Dorian watched his little rant with a faint look of amused sympathy. “Not looking forward to the ball then?”

Reining himself in, Eris blushed, half-sitting on the edge of his desk. “Are you?”

“And suffer through an evening of exquisite dining, fine wine, elaborate fashion, and delicious scandal? It’ll be dreadful, to be sure.”

Eris rolled his eyes, remembering they were on quite opposite pages regarding the finer things. “Yes, well, forgive me for coming into all this with some difficulty; the Dalish don’t really have politics, and we certainly don’t have _waltzes.”_

”Fair enough,” Dorian chuckled. “Though it is rather easy to learn.”

“Madame de Fer thought the same,” Eris muttered into his glass. “Movement in combat is one thing; rhythm is another beast entirely. I am unable to meet Vivienne’s eye after our last lesson.” He shrugged, relenting distantly, “Although, the marvelous control over her composure is to be envied.”

“Say it isn’t so!” Dorian inflected dramatically, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “Our dear Herald? Our gracious roguish elf who has defied all expectations of the natural order? A _bad dancer?”_

“Yes, har-har,” Eris drawled, pacing across the floor to scuff his boot on the rug, bowing sarcastically. “Behold your holy symbol is, in fact, incapable of keeping a beat.”

“Come now, no one is unteachable.”

“Sera has delightedly dubbed me ‘Left-Foot Lavellan’.”

Dorian grinned. “It does have a nice ring to it,” he teased. After a sip of wine, he set his glass on the side table and rose to his feet. “Perhaps you just need the right tutor, someone who can find the way _you_ are able to learn.”

“Mm, and I suppose that would be you?”

“Don’t sound so displeased,” Dorian chided as he strode past toward the balcony. He turned back around to face Eris with a grin and spread his arms in invitation. “You’ll remember I _have_ partaken in a few of these shindigs in my lifetime.”

Eris paused to process Dorian’s movements, and once it registered he laughed in embarrassment, grinning nervously. “What— _now?”_

“Why not? The castle is asleep; there’s no one around for you to be made a fool in front of.”

_“You’re_ here!”

“The teacher doesn’t count,” Dorian tutted. “The teacher corrects but never judges.”

“Just like your encyclopedic ‘corrections’ of our men’s uniforms?” Eris smirked.

“That’s different; it was a critique, and a well-deserved one at that. I swear, you southerners dress as if Andraste herself amended the Chant of Light to include a verse condemning any sense of fashion.” Dorian gestured again to encourage Eris to come forward. “Now hurry up; we can’t have you embarrassing the whole of the Inquisition before the entire Orlesian court, can we? Because I assure you, those masked jackals will be _far_ less forgiving of ‘Left-Foot Lavellan’ than I.”

Eris briefly looked around himself, as if expecting literally anyone to simply materialise and inform him this was a joke and relieve him of this circumstance. When, unsurprisingly, no one came to his rescue, Eris chewed his lip and nodded in tight relent; no room for pride. He did need the practice; and Vivienne deserved a reprieve from his stiff-legged hopelessness. He took one last gulp of wine, more as a last-minute stall than a search for courage, then set his glass on the desk behind him. “Alright; have it your way.”

“I always do,” Dorian crooned, aggravatingly pleased with himself as Eris joined him outside on the balcony. 

Dorian took up Eris’s hand and slid an arm around his waist to assume the starting position. Eris hoped he wasn’t blushing. “There’s not even any music,” he muttered helplessly, a final attempt at escape falling short as Dorian began guiding their steps with slow, wordless encouragement, like a mare urging her foal to its feet for the first time.

“Who needs music? The Inquisition has always marched to the beat of its own drum.”

Eris scoffed. “You think you’re _so_ cute.” 

“Don’t you?” Dorian poked in mock innocence.

They moved carefully at first, Dorian counting out their steps, but it made little difference. Eris wanted to blame the wine for his several missteps, but he knew if anything it was probably _helping._ Dorian proved rather gentle, however, mercifully sparing Eris by only patiently correcting him instead of picking fun, but that almost embarrassed Eris more; he fought the urge to bury his face into Dorian’s shoulder. He averted his gaze all the same, just trying to proceed by feeling the movements and keeping a very close eye on their feet.

A few more stumbles, but soon Eris was beginning to pick up the imaginary rhythm, vaguely catching on to Dorian’s lead, trying to remember Vivienne’s lessons with each step. The cool air was nothing to the warmth buzzing under their skin, a pleasant buzzing that shouldered aside some of Eris’s tension, and he was unable to hold in a stupid, giggling laugh when Dorian suddenly pulled Eris in close and pivoted to lean them into a dramatic dip.

“See?” Dorian egged, self-satisfied. “It’s not so bad, is it?”

“Says you,” Eris argued dispassionately, fighting another laugh, a little dizzy as Dorian stood them both back upright. “Show off.”

“Maybe this is the one circumstance in which our great leader must learn to follow.”

It might have just been the drink drawing the heat to Dorian’s face, but Eris could have sworn something deeper smoldered there. He felt the flush in his own face, but his delight began to sink into something heavier that settled into his chest. In the far recesses of his mind was the suspicion that this was not what they had come up here to talk about.

After a few more rotations he fell calm, almost somber. A thoughtful silence passed between them, Eris being less than discreet about studying Dorian’s features. Then he mused hushedly, “This is the closest you’ve come to me since I opened that Rift.” He faltered, hearing the note of hurt in his own voice posturing as jest, a limp smile not reaching his eyes as he sought Dorian’s. Eris voiced the possibility he feared the most: “You aren’t… afraid of me now—are you?”

Storm-grey eyes flashed in subtle surprise at the question. “Hardly,” Dorian stated, regarding Eris with burning sincerity. Eris saw an unspoken answer pass behind the clouds there before Dorian supplied a different one. He resumed a mere shell of his former nonchalant mirth. “It takes more than that to get rid of me.”

Eris held his wry gaze, intent; he couldn’t help huffing an exasperated scoff. “Then why do you keep pulling away from me?” Unconsciously emphasizing his point, Eris slid the hand on Dorian’s shoulder up to hold his face, searching as if he could find the answer under the skin. “Why is it every time I look at you, you look away?”

The heavy air between them was growing thick with energy, inebriating—they had stopped moving completely. Dorian’s voice dropped low as he smirked faintly, distractedly—he wasn’t looking away now. “I like playing hard to get.”

Deep heat inched its way through Eris’s chest even as he tilted his head, not entirely convinced. But he sensed something of a merciful authenticity behind the quips—a reassurance to assuage his suspicion, that what Eris had convinced himself of was not true. Even though Dorian gave no substitute explanation, it helped Eris find an easier smile. “And now?” he ventured, hardly above a whisper.

The hand at Eris’s waist slid toward the small of his back to pull him closer, Dorian’s other hand reaching to cup the elf’s jaw. A thumb swept gently over his cheek. Dorian gave a sly grin as he leaned in close, his deepened tenor vibrating in Eris’s chest, the breath of his words brushing Eris’s lips before they were claimed deeply: “I’m gotten.”

The kiss felt like a breath taken and stolen all at once, and something like hazy relief saturated Eris’s being. He returned the kiss with fervor, hungrily drawing Dorian in, feeling the tickle of a moustached smile as Dorian’s hands moved to grip Eris’s hips, hugging him closer as he crowded him back against the wall. Between the pressure of Dorian against him and support of the stone behind him, Eris melted easily into the embrace and parted his lips with little coaxing; Dorian’s tongue met his own, and Eris let out a little sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh, uninhibited.

Dorian’s chuckle resonated in Eris’s chest. “How _bad_ does the Inquisitor want to be?”

Eris exhaled as they parted for breath. Panting, he caught Dorian’s face in his hands and brought their foreheads together. “Not here,” he huffed. “I don’t want to be Inquisitor here.”

Accommodating, Dorian deepened their searing kiss, wandering hands reaching the hem of Eris’s shirt to touch the skin of his back. In spite of himself, Eris tensed, and he cringed as he did it. His hands automatically fell to Dorian’s wrists, gently staying their movements before Eris could stop himself. 

“Sorry,” he breathed, trying to sweep it under the rug with another kiss. Dorian obliged, but his hands still lingered at Eris’s waist, hovering now above the fabric of his shirt and grazing tenderly up over his back. So unused to touch, the contact sent a stiff shiver through Eris’s spine.

“Do they hurt?” Dorian asked, breathless but gentle against Eris’s ear, sending another thrill across his skin.

“No,” Eris replied hurriedly, more embarrassed than anything and trying not to let his hands shake at the sudden rush of anxiety. “It’s just—I haven’t… since before—” He huffed a nervous laugh at his own expense. “It’s been… a while.” 

And it had been—it had been a long time since he’d been looked at like this, seen like this, touched like this—since he’d _wanted_ to be touched like this. And this want was a brushfire; Eris had been lying stranded in a parched plain, and Dorian was the lightning storm that had set the land ablaze, swallowing Eris whole. He needed this—needed _him._

Dorian said nothing but instead gave his response in slower kisses. His rushed fondling became a mindful caress up Eris’s sides, over his shoulders and toward his jaw to gently guide his chin upward to deepen the embrace before his hands slid toward the top clasp of his shirt. “May I?” he asked against the corner of Eris’s mouth.

Eris exhaled a yes, their movements slow but his breath quickening. He wanted to smother himself in this, but his reflexes tore at his nerves, insisting he had to _escape._ But no—Eris managed to keep himself rooted, grasping firmly onto the comfort of the one word that always filled his head around Dorian, replaying itself over and over: _safe._

Lips caressed the pulse in his throat as Dorian’s staff-calloused fingers took deliberate time in unfastening the shirt clasps one by one, brushing over the skin underneath until his lips took their place, pausing after each one to make sure it was still okay before moving on to the next. Eris hated himself for the wine; he was flush with emotion and felt something tighten in his throat. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or cry; if he were to have cried right now, he’d never forgive himself. He chased the sensation away by pulling Dorian’s face back toward his and planting a newly invigorated kiss. He didn’t want to take his time; in the dizzying flood of everything, he decided he’d waited enough.

Dorian indulged him, rising to kiss him fiercely once more, sliding his hands down Eris’s hips and under his thighs to hoist him up against the wall. Feeling weightless and leaden all the same, Eris’s arms looped around Dorian’s shoulders, legs wrapping tightly around his waist so he could help bolster his own weight as he was lifted and carried back inside. With Dorian’s spatial awareness a little compromised at the moment, his knees suddenly connected with the foot of the bed, and they both laughed as they pitched forward onto the mattress.

From there it became a flurry of frantic fingers fiddling with buttons and belts and clasps—“Why so many buckles?” Eris huffed, laughing but somewhat frustrated as he tried to navigate Dorian’s elaborate leathers. “Are you so committed to dramatics that even undressing requires suspense?”—until madly they were skin against skin, hot mouths and roaming hands indiscriminately seeking to hold and kiss and grab and taste whatever they could.

A haze of pleasure rolled in like evening fog in the valley. Shivers blazed across hot flesh as fingernails scratched up curved spines and over scalps; mouth and breath humid against sensitive ears and working their way down: jaw, tracing the _vallaslin_ across his throat, neck, collarbone, chest, navel—teeth and tongue leaving abstract portraits of attention in a trail that could be followed back home.

Eris sought Dorian’s blown gaze, peering through heavy lids to meet such an intensity that almost threw him for a minute; he wanted to laugh—from the sheer euphoria of his body’s response and the disbelief of everything that had gotten him here, to this moment. Maybe he did laugh; Dorian’s face broke into an easy grin as he kissed him again, almost sweetly for a moment before it became feverish, hungry mouth searching deeply once more.

First there was restraint, the languorous movements of lazy passion, promises of moans hidden behind bitten lips and hands. Then bliss built swiftly, no time for ceremony, needing something, needing _this;_ now— _now_ —something writhing, rolling, rutting, aching, arching, audible: the stick of skin, the rustle of fabric, uncaged moans set free. Dark marks on the tender skin of thighs, head slamming into the pillow, fingers grasping at hair and sheets and shoulders and hips—digging in to ride out this storm; finding shelter in the tempest itself; dancing in the thralls of this slow hurricane.

* * *

Dorian’s eyes cracked open just long enough to scrunch closed again against the onslaught of illumination. In one half-second, Dorian tried to remember the last time he’d slept so well into the daylight. In the other half, he jolted from the momentary amnesia one experiences upon waking after a deep sleep, forgetting where he was until he scrubbed the fog from his eyes and rolled onto his back to look at the other side of the bed where Eris still slept soundly, back facing Dorian a respectable few inches apart. Dorian, his mind and thoughts still quite sleep-smeared, was gripped with the sudden desire to close this meager distance between them, to move closer and drape an arm over Eris, to pull himself closer and claim the real estate of torso where the blanket didn’t reach, the curve of his neck where the honey-blonde hair curled away looking exceptionally primed for kissing—

Funny; he’d never really had those morning-after thoughts before—never really had the chance.

Dorian took in the sight of the massive smattering of scars beveling and embossing the Inquisitor’s back; he remembered how they’d felt under his hands, fingers and palms, against his chest and lips, the way he’d felt the muscles underneath tense and relax with every movement. He remembered the toned strength in Eris’s arms and legs, refined from his hunter’s training, wrapped tight around Dorian and crowding him closer until they were sealed together by sweat and want. He remembered how they shared the vibrations of their every sound between their skin, across their skin, kindling the fire in his core. He remembered the sharp breaths under his grasp as his mouth attended sensitive elven ears, and he remembered the hot sighs against his own carrying with them needy little moans; _I want you—_

The rush of heat to Dorian’s face woke him as well as any dash of cold water. He sat up with a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to shut up that little murmur of pragmatism in the far reaches of Dorian’s mind that kept telling him it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to do this to Eris, to himself—but, oh, _Maker,_ had it felt good to taste him, to taste the evening on his lips: whiskey and wine, apple and honey and laughter. It had felt _good_ to inhale this desire instead of running away from it. He had reveled to drink in Eris’s scent, his undertones of sweet, rich earthiness: like jasmine tea and myrrh. In tandem with the alcohol that had been humming low through his own body, the cocktail of energy between them had been heady and luxurious, deliciously keeping their mouths occupied with anything other than talking.

Eris’s breathing came in little sounds bordering on snores but falling just short—endearing in a way that kept him from seeming entirely too perfect and thus assuring Dorian this was, in fact, not an exquisitely crafted dream. The disheveled sheets were haphazardly draped over the elf’s waist, tangled between his legs and ruffled all around him, redolent of the artisanal stone statues carved into evocative figures by sculptors so struck with a vision they had been compelled to immortalize it with painstaking delicacy, with a tender passion that could not be manufactured, so that the statues could decorate pedestals or walkways or wherever else they could be placed to capture and broadcast such unending beauty, proving one can live forever, but only when truly seen through the eyes of another.

Now, now, Dorian thought, reeling himself in. He draped a forearm over his eyes, trying not to laugh at himself out loud. This was not the time to be waxing poetic—the show was over, the fantasy had run its course. End scene, no sequels in the works; Dorian had understood a long time ago that matters of the heart and reasonings from the mind had no place in the bedroom. Strictly business; a common goal: just a bit of fun. A means of passing time, really, but in a much more gratifying way than reading a book or gardening. This was where the story had to end—this was always where it had to end.

He should leave now, Dorian thought as he sat up, inching carefully toward the foot of the bed. After all, would it be any good for the Inquisitor if they were both seen leaving his quarters too close together? He wondered how late in the morning it was; would their simultaneous absence be noticed? It wasn’t untrue, the Inquisitor’s image being flouted by the ugly stain of Dorian’s beside it, like spilling wine atop pristine archival texts. He could practically hear the spit hitting his soup, the echoes of whispers that had already long been in circulation since the day he’d arrived.

He’d be doing them both a favor if he left now, surely. Dorian had been smitten far too soon after meeting the Inquisitor. He’d striven to conceal any inkling of it from himself, from either of them, downplaying his interest to make it seem only physical, impersonal, but he’d done a rather poor job of convincing himself. When he couldn’t bear to try, he’d simply played aloof, unable to bring himself to express anything freely, both out of habit—to deflect the pull of temptation—and to protect the Inquisitor’s image. It wouldn’t be fair of him to lend his hand in defamation of the beloved Herald of Andraste.

Though perhaps, in truth, it was just about wanting to leave before he was left—or worse, thrown out.

But he couldn’t do it. He thought of the times he had been the one waking to nothing but a shallow mould in the sheets beside him, the indisputable blow it made to one’s ego, the reality check that this wasn’t anything, couldn’t be anything; the idea of leaving the Inquisitor with such an insult didn’t sit right with him at all. Dorian remembered last night had involved a level of trust in him that he’d treasured and made every effort to prove he was deserving of that. Leaving would be more than an insult; it would be a betrayal. But where would they go from here? Where could they? What if it wasn’t trust at all? Maybe Eris had been drunker than Dorian thought.

Dorian had to take another breath past the tension in his chest, exhausted from running all the paths of his stream of consciousness, embarrassed in front of no one to once again give power to insecurity, to doubt, to overthinking. A conversation; that was the only thing for it. He needed to hear the words from Eris himself: _You can go, now._ That way he would have his answer, closure, get out before things got worse.

All he could do for now was try to think of how to rid his body of this nervous energy as he remained sitting up at the foot of the bed, evaluating the room, and oh, this green rug doesn’t match a single shade in that stained glass, who ordered this? Understandable if the Inquisitor’s concept of interior design was a little lacking considering his background, but surely Lady Montilyet knew well enough to keep from abetting such a crime as that drapery—

“Do I pass the inspection?”

Hushed and caked with sleep as Eris’s voice was, Dorian congratulated himself for not jolting into the atmosphere the way his startled pulse suggested he should. He looked over his shoulder to see the one eye that wasn’t smothered into the Inquisitor’s pillow cracked open in Dorian’s direction. A little flush was in his own face, a subconscious tug at his bottom lip suggesting he too had been replaying the night before. There was a veil of sleep shrouding his features along with dark blonde halo of perfectly mussed hair as he sat up, eyes heavy, a shy quirk to that smile in a way that made Dorian’s heart leap—Maker; he was done for.

“I like your appointments,” Dorian stalled with impressive control, avoidance having long become a raw instinct. “The palette is left wanting, to be sure, but I suppose ergonomically the space is fitted just fine.”

“Well, I certainly don’t have a clue about any of that,” Eris deadpanned, rubbing an eye. He gathered the sheets in his arm as he scooted across the bed to sit next to Dorian. 

Dorian spared him a sidelong smirk. “Not to worry; there’s hope for you yet. After all, there is at least one thing in this room that implies you have excellent taste.”

Eris smiled again, then gestured vaguely around the room. “By all means, if you want to change things around—”

“No,” Dorian said, a little too quickly. He’d have preferred Eris had stayed behind him; Dorian dropped his gaze to his fingers fidgeting in his lap as he tried to sift through the noise in his head. “That’s not what I want.” 

The change in tone was so stark Dorian inwardly cringed. Eris adapted to the shift in energy; he dipped his head slowly in the transition. “But you want _something,”_ he inferred.

Dorian steeled himself, turning his head toward Eris but not yet committing his gaze to any one focus. “I’m… curious where this goes you and I,” he stated with all the nonchalance he could muster, which was not very much at all, any mirth in his tone anchored with sandbags of tension. “We’ve had fun—perfectly reasonable to leave it here, get on with the business of killing archdemons and such.”

Eris considered this briefly. “Is that what you want?” he ventured, his voice betraying nothing but having grown softer all the same.

Dorian scoffed, faintly, wryly, not entirely appreciating the Inquisitor making him have to run this gamut for himself. He sighed. “I… like you,” Dorian admitted with some difficulty. “More than I should—more than might be wise. I need to kn—” He cut himself off, recalibrating his approach while still unable to look at Eris, and being aware of that made it even harder to try. Dorian sighed, consigned. “We end it here, I walk away. I won’t be pleased, but I’d rather now more than later. Later… might be dangerous.” _As if it hasn’t always been._

Eris shifted his position at Dorian’s side—closer or further away, Dorian was unsure; it was taking all his focus to keep his face as impassive as possible. “Why dangerous?” Eris queried.

_Kaffas,_ was he trying to be insufferable on purpose? Was he trying to drag this out, pull every thread loose? Dorian worked his jaw, face falling toward the floor again. He spoke barely above a whisper: “Walking away might be… harder then.”

After a breath, Eris spoke measuredly, somewhat strained as if pushing the words through his own barriers. “I want more than just fun, Dorian.”

Bewildered, he at last managed to meet Eris’s eyes, if only to make sure he hadn’t misheard. His heart fluttered in his chest even as his mind fought to reject such words given that they were said to _him._ The elf had brought a leg up onto the mattress so he could turn his body to face Dorian, laced fingers capping his knee, chin resting on the back of his hands. There was a vulnerability there Dorian hadn’t expected, a sincerity he hadn’t ever seen in the mornings after. He was stuck questioning now if all this wasn’t all a dream after all. 

That crooked smile made a gentle appearance, catching on Dorian’s heart in much the way it caught on that tooth. “Speechless, I see,” Eris teased softly as Dorian failed to supply a response.

“I was… expecting something different,” Dorian said distantly. He took a deep breath, steadying himself even as he faltered. “Where I come from, anything between two men: it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted, but taken no further. You learn not to hope for more; you’d be foolish to.” The explanation came out stiffly, sounding and feeling more like an apposite reminder Dorian had to give himself.

Eris must have heard the note of exasperation Dorian had tried to bury under his words, the firm self-directedness. “You still feel that way?” he asked quietly, sympathetically as he refused to look away from Dorian even as the mage struggled to return his stare. But when he did, Dorian was again caught off-guard by what he found: yes, sympathy, strange as that felt on its own, and an encouraging attempt at a half-smile—but there was also something more precarious there, some anticipation in Eris’s features as if wanting a certain answer but expecting another. He sought Eris’s face and slowly dared permit himself to suspect what he saw there was an expression of what Dorian himself had failed to avoid: hope.

“I’m beginning to learn otherwise,” Dorian whispered.

The gravity of what was unspoken loomed over what _was_ being spoken. Everything felt far away, the light of day lending itself to a certain disconnect; there was nowhere else to hide. But all the same Dorian couldn’t have been more present, more _here,_ more _now._

“I want _you,_ Dorian,” Eris said. “There is more about you to want than this.” A tanned hand sought Dorian’s to clasp it gently but pointedly, Eris’s skin still bed-warmed as he inched closer. His smile wilted some, but his face was still open with wounding fondness as Eris’s other hand rose to trace the line of Dorian’s jaw. “You’re worth more than just this,” he whispered, bringing their foreheads together. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to run from me.”

Dorian could hardly take it; they’d been awake for, what, five minutes? And he was already overcome with such a tide of emotion that threatened to drown him if he tried to breathe through the knot deep in his throat. So he tried to find his breath instead within this embrace, in another kiss, in this bizarre creature right next to him, this man so sun-warm and sun-touched, golden inside and out: the visage of a honeybee, the resolve of a lion.

“What do you say?” Eris hummed as they parted slowly, a snarky smile curling his lips as he added with emphasis, _“Friend.”_

Dorian begrudged him a chuckle, grateful for the break in tension. “I’m not exactly sure where this goes from here,” he confessed. “I have no examples with which to compare.”

“I’m sure we’ll muddle through somehow.”

“Like the Inquisition?” Dorian smiled broadly in kind, a suffocating weight finally beginning to crumble away from his shoulders. “Just make it up as we go?”

Eris shrugged, flippant. “It’s worked for me so far.”

“Clearly,” Dorian laughed. He pulled Eris into another delighted kiss. His head was spinning; his heart was light as a bird. This new revelation, this pivotal moment, this permission to _want_ kindled the embers of desire anew in Dorian’s core, the inebriation of morning confessions compelling him to say back what he could never bring himself to put to words. In a sweeping gesture he collected Eris in his arms and swung himself onto his knees at either side of Eris’s hips to lean them both back into the bed, the elf giggling underneath him as they pressed into the mattress.

Dorian wanted to drink in as much of this as he could, savor every morsel he could imbibe before they were forced to remember the great threat to Thedas and return to the endangered world once more. He needed all he could take now, for even with Eris’s words that still ran circles in his mind, Dorian would never risk taking for granted that there would ever be a later.


End file.
